


This is Not My Beautiful House

by itsactuallycorrine



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Clarke-centric, F/M, Gen, Minor Finn Collins/Raven Reyes, Minor Raven Reyes/Kyle Wick, Minor Wells Jaha, Post-Season/Series 02, The Ark Station
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsactuallycorrine/pseuds/itsactuallycorrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke wakes up to an unfamiliar reality.</p><p>begins post-season 2 canon</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Talking Heads. Or, you know, the outdated meme. Definitely one of these two...
> 
> Also, this was intended to be a ( _short_ ) mostly Bellarke story, but it felt wrong to push post-s2-canon!Clarke right into that, so this morphed into an exercise in (a) writing Clarke, with which I am admittedly less comfortable, (b) examining her motivations and relationships, and (c) getting her to a place where I didn't feel icky shoehorning in romance.
> 
> I was going to wait and post this all as one draft, but I feel like I've been working on pieces of it forever, so I'm posting the beginning (possibly prematurely) in order to get some feedback (hint hint)

Clarke falls asleep as she has since Mount Weather, since walking away from her people: cold, dirty, hungry, and alone.

She tries not to think of words like _martyr_ and _penance_. To do so would bring to mind an even more dangerous and impossible concept: _absolution_.

Clarke knows there is no forgiveness to earn, no one in this life or the next to exonerate her.

The backs of her eyes sting. She keeps them dry through sheer force of will, inhales through her nose, and begins the silent litany on an exhale.

_Atom_

_The Grounder guard_

_Finn_

_Dante_

_Maya_

She loses consciousness struggling to recall as many of the original 100 lost at the battle at the dropship as possible, of the 300 Grounders killed, of the people in Tondc, of the 250 Mount Weather inhabitants.

 

* * *

 

To say that she wakes up in an unfamiliar bed would be disingenuous. She recognizes it immediately, the familiar dips and springs, but writes it off as some figment of her imagination in her half-asleep state, along with the faint mechanical whirring.

Someone knocks, though, and there's no dismissing that.

Clarke jackknifes upright, sheet pooling in her lap, as she stares around her old bedroom on the Ark. And not the pathetic cot in her cell in the Sky Box, either, but home in a way Earth could never be.

"No," she says to herself, pressing her palms to the mattress, running her fingers along the seams of the bedding. "No no no. This isn't possible. This isn't real." She closes her eyes, counts to ten, but when she's done, everything is still there.

Her gaze darts around the room - her chess set folded neatly on a shelf, a cup of pencils, silly doodles and serious sketches scattered everywhere. Moving to kneel on the floor, she opens the drawer built into the bottom of her bed, rifling through her clothes, looking for anything that might be out of place.

Nothing stands out.

Her survey is interrupted by another, more impatient, knock.

"Yes?" she says, rising to her feet and pressing a palm to her spinning head, only to have her entire world fall off its axis when the door slides open.

"Hey, kid, let's get a move on," her dad says, smiling a bit, a piece of dark blonde hair falling across his forehead.

Clarke's throat tightens while her chest clenches hard, but she's never been happier. "Dad?" Her voice falters halfway through the word as she catapults into his arms. He's warm and solid against her and she presses her nose against his chest, breathing him in. She'd started to forget, she realizes now, how he smells, the sound of his voice, the exact shade of blue his eyes were. Are. "Is it really you?" she asks, clinging to him.

"Whoa, Clarke." He wraps his arms around her and squeezes. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Of course it's me. Who were you expecting?"

She trembles against him, fraught with emotion, while he makes comforting noises into her hair. "This can't be real, it can't be," she whispers hoarsely into his shirt, "but right now, I don't care. I don't care. You're alive."

He rubs one big hand down her back. "Must've been some dream to shake you up like this. I'm alive, Clarke. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Take a deep breath. There you go," he says when she follows his advice. "Another."

A single sob hiccups out of her, but she breathes slowly again and again, until her head clears. And, wonder of all wonder, her dad is still there. She leans back to look at him.

He tugs on a piece of hair framing her face and his smile is tinged with concern. "Better?" She nods. "Good. Do you want to talk about it?"

She thinks about it - thinks about letting it all spill out, from her mother's betrayal to his floating to Earth and what came after - but shakes her head instead. She's not going to waste whatever small amount of time she has with him. "Just a dream," she says, forcing a smile, wishing that was true, knowing that she's going to wake up at any moment, heartbroken.

Her dad stares at her for a long moment, then shrugs. "As long as you know I'm here if you change your mind." He looks wistful for a moment, brushing her hair aside. "I need to get in all the parenting I can before you leave me behind."

Clarke grabs his wrist with both hands, right over his watch - her watch - and leans her cheek into the cradle of his fingers. "I never want to leave you behind. Never."

"But it'll happen anyway," he says with a soft smile before he pulls his hand free. "Now, c'mon, I think you have just enough time for a quick protein pack before your shift in Medical."

"My shift, right," she says. Clarke wants to laugh at the idea of showing up for a predetermined amount of time, doing her duty, and then being free from that responsibility for hours. For the past few months, she's been on the clock - so to speak - nonstop.  She's not able to completely repress the smile.

"That's a change. Normally you complain how boring it is this early in the morning."

She does laugh then, although it sounds brittle to her own ears. "I could use a little boring."

He gives her a quizzical look, but says only, "I'll let you get ready." She opens her mouth to stop him, wanting to bask in his presence, but he's through the door before she makes a sound.

Clarke tenses, certain once he's walked out that she's going to wake up.

She doesn't.

Exhaling slowly, she wanders around the room at her leisure, examining every detail to find the piece that doesn't fit, that will confirm this is some addled hallucination. Maybe she's been on her own too long or the foliage she'd found for her dinner the previous night had psychotropic properties. But... it doesn't _feel_ like that, not like the jobi nuts did, like she was looking at the world through a warped pane of glass.

She runs her hand over the ledge jutting out from the wall that she always used as a catch-all for whatever small treasures she could find. A shallow tin holds her earrings, the family heirlooms her parents had given her for her fifteenth birthday. Beneath them rests a small silver ring, a plain band that Clarke has never seen before. Picking it up, she examines it, but beyond a slightly worn interior and a small scratch, it holds no clues.

Setting it back down, she rests her palm on the cover of a book, her thumb brushing the title imprinted on the spine: _The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology_. Although it doesn't seem like the kind of book she would read, it's most likely one she'd smuggled out of the library.

A smile tugs at her lips, nostalgic at the thought of an uncomplicated existence, where small rebellions were her only thrill and the most pressing problem had been the strain of apprenticing in her mother's area of expertise.

Clarke shakes her head, trying to reconcile the girl she'd been - privileged, dogmatic, naive, so certain of right and wrong, of black and white - with what she's become. If that young girl had heard the story of the the things Clarke has done over the past few months, she'd have branded the perpetrator a monster, the most vile of evils.

She wonders now if the urge to justify her actions only goes to prove that young Clarke would have been correct.

"Clarke!" her dad calls from another section of their flat and she jumps, swallowing hard as she's reminded that he's here with her again. "Five minutes!"

Shaking her head, she goes back to the drawer tucked into the bed and pulls out her familiar blue scrubs. The bottoms - always a little loose to begin with - gape at her waist alarmingly. She pinches the extra fabric and frowns. In reality, on the Ground, however she should refer to the life she's been living, she knows she's lost weight as a byproduct of stress and constantly being on the run for her and her people's lives. What confuses her is why her mind has manifested that here in this... reality? universe? dream?

Her dad drops something in the other room and she tucks the question away for now; odds are she'll wake up before she has time to think about it any further.

"Finally," he says when she walks through the door and she drinks in the miracle of him being here with her at all once more. He holds out her tablet along with a meal pack, which she accepts while trying not to wrinkle her nose. It's hard to be excited about Ark rations after she's tasted real, Earth-grown food.

Clarke heads toward the door of their flat with reluctant steps, before she hesitates. "Maybe I should stay home today. I'm sure Mom can get by without me." She smiles, warming up to her topic. "We could both play hooky and hang out. Relax."

Her dad stares at her like she's grown a second head. "Okay, who are you and where is my self-sacrificing daughter who always puts everyone else first?"

Wincing at the pang in her chest, she feels her smile falter around the edges. "It was just an idea," she says brightly. Too brightly, she thinks, as he narrows his eyes. Giving up the idea as lost, she walks towards the door again.

"Clarke," her dad calls and she turns to him. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

She's never been able to lie to her dad, so she settles for an ambiguous hum and waves at him. In the doorway, she stops. "Dad, if I ask you something, will you promise to answer me honestly?"

He looks hurt. "When have we ever been less than honest with each other?"

Clarke resists the urge to shift on her feet. "Is there a problem with the Ark life support? With the oxygen supply?"

"No," he says, eyes wide. "Why? Is there something you've heard?"

"No, no," she's quick to answer. "But maybe... could you just double check?"

An understanding look comes over him. "Does this have anything to do with the dream you had?"

She doesn't answer and he frowns at her. "I'll double check. But, honey, I really do think you should talk to someone about this. It doesn't have to be me."

"Thanks, Dad." She hesitates once more before leaving, terrified that as soon as she walks through the door, she'll wake up and he'll be gone again. "And Dad? I love you."

"I love you, too." He grins at her and jerks his chin. "Now get going before your mom has my head."

 

* * *

 

Clarke walks along the crowded hallway, wincing under the artificial light, trying to decide whether it or the ambient noise of the generators is going to give her a headache first. She sighs, impatient with herself. She grew up under these conditions and had only been on the Ground for a few short months, yet here she was acting as though this was some foreign environment.

She brushes past two guards, not sparing either a glance until one grabs her elbow. Jerking her gaze up in alarm, she gapes when she recognizes the face.

“Take out your ID chip,” Bellamy Blake says, his face set in stern lines. Turning to the other guard, he waves him on. “I’ve got this, go ahead and I’ll catch up.” The other guard shrugs and keeps moving, and Clarke lets Bellamy pull her out of the flow of traffic, into a quieter adjacent corridor.

She runs her eyes over him, his unmarred and familiar face, the dark blue uniform that complements him so well, his dark hair neater than she’d seen it since the dropship door opened the first time. He looks younger or perhaps just more unburdened. Clarke's stomach clenches when he turns his dark eyes back her way, suddenly remembering what he’d said. He wants to scan her ID chip, he doesn’t know her. In her younger years, she was unused to guards not recognizing her, but this is so much worse, because it’s _Bellamy_ and in some ways, he knows her better than anyone else.

Swallowing around the catch in her throat, she pats down the pockets of her scrubs, wondering if she’d remembered to grab the chip out of habit. When she comes up empty, she opens her mouth to make excuses…

Just as a large hand cradles her jaw, tilting her face up to receive a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Bellamy’s lips are soft against hers and part immediately, without giving her a chance to comprehend what’s happening. Clarke stiffens, waiting for her survival instinct to kick in, that fight-or-flight drive. It never comes. Instead the taste and feel and scent of him - cleaner and crisper than he’s ever been around her, but still recognizable - overwhelm her senses. Dropping everything in her hands, she kisses him back, opening up to him, seizing control as some far different primal urge surges.

He meets her stroke for stroke, his initial tenderness melting away under the onslaught of Clarke’s sudden hunger for this, for him. Her hands find his waist and then slide up his firm torso to wrap around the back of his neck. His hair isn’t quite long enough to touch her fingertips and a pang of something - wistfulness? - echoes throughout her. It feels like some half-remembered wish in the back of her mind, a fantasy she’d unwittingly entertained, that if she ever kissed him, ever took that chance, she’d be able to tangle her fingers in his too-long hair.

It’s this realization that brings her back to herself, pulling back from him - this Bellamy that isn’t _her_ Bellamy - and trying to ignore his soft sound of dissent. Closing her eyes, Clarke tells herself it’s stupid to be upset that their first kiss happened this way, especially since she hadn’t consciously admitted she _wanted_ a first kiss with him.

When she pulls back to look at him, though, his soft gaze is so achingly familiar that for a moment she wonders if it is her Bellamy, if somehow they both got transported to this time or place or whatever cosmic aberration she is stuck in. Maybe he is here with her and she isn't alone in navigating this environment.

“Well,” he says, voice husky, as his hand caresses down her neck to her shoulder. Clarke shivers and blinks up at him, wondering if her eyes are as unfocused and dark as his. “Good morning to you, too.” He smirks a little and although she's comforted by the familiar gesture, her stomach sinks. This isn't Bellamy, not really, not the one she's grown close to on Earth.

“Wha- what are you doing?” she asks, breathless, swallowing her disappointment. She presses her lips together and tells herself it’s to erase the lingering sensation, although the thought holds little weight when she rolls them in, touches them with the tip of her tongue and tastes him there.

He looks at her from beneath his lashes in a way that’s clearly meant to be sheepish, but comes off as flirtatious. “I know I shouldn’t have, but it’s been two whole days.” Leaning towards her, he presses his forearm to the wall beside her shoulder, caging her in with his torso and blocking the sight of her from anyone passing by. He dips his head into the crook of her neck, nosing her hair aside to nuzzle, and Clarke bites back a moan.

“Wait.” She pushes him back with one hand on his shoulder. “We shouldn’t,” she says as a guess, following his cues, but it seems to do the trick, as he leans back with a sigh.

“I know.” He wraps his hand around hers on his shoulder, bringing her fingers to his mouth. "Hey, where's your ring?" he asks suddenly and Clarke blinks up at him before she remembers the one in her room, the one she hadn't recognized.

"The silver one?"

He gives her an odd look. "Yeah, the silver one, unless you've got another engagement ring that I don't know about."

 _Engagement ring?!_ She reels back in shock, bumping into the wall. Bellamy steadies her while Clarke scrambles to hide her surprise. "Right," she manages weakly, mind spinning while she searches for an excuse. "I, uh, it was too loose and I didn't want it to fall off."

He sighs, but there's an air of fond exasperation to it. "I know you think you have something to prove to Abby about surviving without her ration points, but you can’t live on pride.” Like she had earlier, he pinches the extra fabric of her waistband with a frown. “Have you been skipping meals to save up for fabric for your wedding dress?”

Even through her incredulity, Clarke rolls her eyes as a reflex. “Are you serious?” she asks, noting his statement about the ration points with some relief. Trust whatever dark corner of her mind that came up with this outlandish scenario to manufacture a reasonable explanation for her question earlier. It’s enough to coax a smile out of her. “Do these scrubs look like I have any interest in fashion?”

He smiles, releasing the extra fabric with a soft flutter of his fingers against her side that has her twitching and knocking his hand away. "There's a first time for everything," he says. "If you're not saving for fabric, maybe you can go to the Exchange and find a chain for the ring instead, hide it around your neck. That's probably smarter than wearing it, even if it was on the wrong hand."

His tone is grudging, like they’ve had this conversation before, and Clarke arches an eyebrow knowingly, but keeps quiet.

Bellamy huffs. “Yeah, yeah.” He drops a smacking kiss on her cheek. “Like your dad always says, I might as well begin as I mean to go on: _You were right, dear._ ” And with a quickfire grin, he spins on his heels and walks away without looking back, leaving Clarke sagging against the wall.

She presses shaking fingers to her eyelids as soon as he’s out of sight and struggles to make sense of everything. Her dad being alive, being back on the Ark, she can justify those things. They're reasonable desires, nothing she's voiced aloud but certainly things she's wished for in the darker moments on Earth.

But being in a secret relationship with Bellamy? Being _engaged_ to Bellamy? Where had that come from?

 _You care about him_ , a familiar voice whispers in the back of her mind.

She pushes it away.

Laying forgotten on the floor where she’d dropped it, her tablet beeps with a new message, her mother asking where she is.

Clarke sets off towards Medical with new determination, needing to focus on something she can do and do well, instead of all these confusing emotions.

 

* * *

 

Her mother greets her with a chilled civility that Clarke puzzles over for hours while she keeps busy with menial tasks - wrapping bandages, checking inventory, sorting vials.

Sure, Clarke was late, but Abby isn’t exactly known for being a paragon of punctuality. There must be something more straining their relationship.

She thinks about what Bellamy said about proving a point to Abby. It's not a stretch to suppose that her mother doesn't approve of her engagement. A medical intern from Alpha marrying a guard from Factory? It's unheard of. Tie in the fact that her mother is a Councilor and her father's position in Environmental Engineering, and Clarke is certainly destined for leadership herself, maybe even Chancellor.

And yet, somehow this version of herself not only met and fell in love with Bellamy Blake, she chose him over _everything_ : social standing, potential political career, parental approval.

Clarke has to admit, she's pretty proud of this other her.

"Clarke, I have a meeting with Kane," her mother says, walking up and tapping away at her tablet. Clarke's beeps with a new message and Abby points at it. "I transferred the file for the next patient. It's a simple row of stitches. If you need anything else, Jackson will be around."

Although a part of her chafes at taking orders from her mother again, Clarke nods. "Got it."

She follows Abby through the door but fumbles when she looks up. "Raven?" she says, staring at the woman in question. Clearing her throat, she pretends to glance at the file, before looking up again. "Raven Reyes?"

"Right here," Raven says, climbing to her feet with the assistance of a blonde man who looks familiar, but Clarke doesn't take her eyes off Raven long enough to figure it out. "Let go of me," Raven's saying, pushing the man's hand away. "I can do it myself, Wick."

"Fine," he answers, holding his hands up. "Although, if I remember correctly, that's exactly what got you into this mess."

"Follow me," Clarke says as Raven bares her teeth at the man. She glances down and sees the wound on the top of Raven's thigh and takes a step closer. "Are you sure you can make it?" she asks quietly.

Raven looks drawn from the strain, but clenches her jaw as her eyes flare hot. "I got this." She glances behind her. "Are coming or not?" she asks the man - Wick - with forced indifference.

He chuckles good-naturedly, even as he hovers in concern. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

It takes Raven a few minutes of teeth-grinding pain to get across the room to an examination table and she's sweating from the exertion, ground down enough to accept Wick's help up onto the surface.

It's surreal, examining Raven while she bickers with Wick, acting like Clarke isn't right here. In fact, Clarke might even go so far to say the pair before her is... _flirting?!?_

She coughs in amusement at her own thoughts and to regain her patient's attention. "I'm going to need you to remove your pants," she says, trying not to laugh at the flash of glee across Wick's face.

"Well, all right," he says with a lazy grin. "It's about time I get my reward for being a Good Samaritan."

"Ugh." Raven pushes him away. "You can leave now."

"Fine," he says, aggrieved, waiting until Clarke turns away to say quietly, "I'll be just outside. Yell out if you need, well, anything."

Clarke pulls the curtain and looks at Raven before she follows Wick out. "Let me know if you need help. Otherwise call when you're done."

It only takes Raven a few minutes to shed her pants and drape the spare sheet over her legs. Clarke disinfects the skin around the laceration, noticing Raven's white-knuckle grip on the table. "Do you want me to bring your friend in?" she asks.

Raven rolls her eyes. "Wick is not my friend. He's just an idiot engineer who loves to distract me while I fix his designs." She glances down at her thigh, then away. "I'll be fine."

Clarke takes her word for it and starts her row of stitches. "He seems to really care about you," she can't help adding, hoping to distract Raven a little even while she gets information. "But you're dating Finn Collins, the Spacewalker, right?"

Raven stays quiet for a long beat, until Clarke looks up at her. "How do you know that?" she asks, voice thick with suspicion. "I doubt the mating habits of kids from Mecha makes for fascinating parlor talk in the higher echelon."

Smiling a little, Clarke turns back to her needle. "My dad and Sinclair are close, being two different division officers in related fields," she lies. "I'm sure he's mentioned you before."

Raven brightens even as her face tightens in pain. "Really?"

Clarke hums noncommittally and snips the thread. "All done! I'll get you a pair of scrub bottoms; they'll be much easier to pull on." She runs through the list of instructions quickly, pleased when Raven examines her handiwork and nods in satisfaction.

"Let Wick know we're done, too, would you? And bring him back?" Raven slides off the table and drops the covering sheet, and Clarke scrambles to give her privacy.

She finds Wick waiting somberly, but he grins as soon as he sees her. "You didn't lose your patience and sew her mouth shut by any chance, did you, Doc?"

Clarke ignores his boyish charm facade and smiles sympathetically. "She'll be fine, she's getting dressed right now and you can be on your way."

"Finally," he sighs and she hears the concern beneath it as she leads him back. Raven's fully clothed and waiting with the curtain open when they return. Wick pouts. "I miss all the fun stuff."

"Don't be a moron." Raven turns to Clarke. "Am I free?" she asks, moving forward with a grin at Clarke's nod.

But Clarke can't help calling, "Raven?" She waits until the other woman meets her gaze. "Just... You deserve to be with someone who loves you the way you want to be loved. Make sure that Finn is the right guy to do that."

Wick gapes at her, then nudges Raven with his elbow. "Ooh, I like her. She might have a point."

Raven scowls. "Or she might not know what the hell she's talking about." She takes an unsteady step forward. "What's your fixation on my boyfriend?"

"None, I swear," Clarke says and she finds that it's true. Whatever she and Finn had been, she would never wish for it back, not after how much destruction was left in its wake. Even in this alternate plane, it's enough to know that he hasn't been corrupted and is alive. "I'd just hate to see you miss out on real happiness," she finishes with a significant glance towards Wick, who looks bashful, although he covers it with a smirk.

Raven sends her another hard look before teetering on her heels and walking out, Wick right behind her.

And even though that encounter is probably not going to earn Clarke the kind of friendship here that they have on Earth, she feels pretty good about it.

 

* * *

 

The rest of Clarke’s shift passes without incident and she walks back to their residential unit without being accosted by any other surprise this life may have in store for her.

Scanning her thumb to unlock their flat, Clarke enters to find her father drying cups as her mother hands them off after washing them. Although residents of Alpha don’t have to abide by the strict resource limitations placed on the other stations, her father has always been adamant that the Griffin family follow the one-hour water limit. Which, more often than not, meant one of them would have to return from a long shift only to be on their feet for that much longer.

Clarke bites her lip to keep from telling her dad all about the lakes and waterfalls she’s seen on Earth. He’d love it, love to know all about the planet that had only ever been theory to him, but… Explaining some would mean explaining all, and Clarke’s not willing to do that if it could cost her what time she’s been gifted with him.

“Hey, kid,” he calls when he sees her, hanging his towel up and dropping a kiss on Abby’s temple, before he walks over to drop on the sofa. “Long day at the office?”

She huffs out a laugh. “I’ve had longer.” In fact, she almost doesn’t know what to do with herself now that she has spare time to herself.

“I ran into Bellamy today,” her dad says, reaching into his shirt pocket, and Clarke notes the way her mother tenses at the sink.

“Oh?” Clarke sits down next to him, tucking one leg beneath her and turning so she can keep her eyes on both of them. “In Go-Sci? Because I saw him there this morning.”

“Clarke,” Abby says with strained patience, turning towards them, hands dripping, “I hope you’re being careful. You both agreed to keep it quiet until-”

“And they’re doing a great job with a ridiculous request,” her dad cuts in and Clarke wants to groan in frustration. Why _are_ they keeping the engagement secret, if her parents know about it? Her dad nudges her knee, and his smile is sly. “I’m sure you were very discreet, weren’t you?”

She nods, thinking of the morning, willing her face not to flush. “Of course,” she agrees in an overly innocent tone that makes him grin at her. She grins back. She’d missed this: Jake and Clarke, partners in crime. Or at least partners in annoying her mother.

Abby sighs as expected and turns back to the sink, and Jake chuckles. “As I was saying, I saw Bellamy and he asked me to pass something to you.” Opening his hand, he drops a simple silver chain into her palm.

“Oh,” Clarke says, dumbstruck and a little touched that Bellamy had gone out of his way, spent his own ration points to get this for her. She clenches it in her fist. “Thanks. The, uh, the ring is a little loose and I was worried about it falling off.”

"Hmm, what a considerate young man," Jake answers, pitching his voice up over the sound of the running water. Clarke stares at him, bemused when he winks and pats her knee before standing. "Don't worry, we'll talk her around yet."

Grabbing his hand, she looks up at him. "You're happy for me, right? For me and... And Bellamy?"

He tweaks her chin, although his look is pensive. "I'm happy if you're happy, Clarke. And the way you look at him..." Dipping his head, he swallows hard then looks back at her with a soft smile. "That kind of love and devotion is all I ever want you to feel." She blinks back the tears burning at the corners of his eyes and he frowns. "Feeling okay?"

She forces a smile. "Just tired."

He hums and glances over to Abby before he turns a playful smile on Clarke. "Why don't you hit the sack? I'll distract the warden."

Rolling her eyes, she stands and presses a kiss to his cheek. "I don't need the details," she says, wrinkling her nose. She doesn't fight the grin, though, when she hears her mother's high shriek followed by laughing curses. It's been far too long since she's heard her mother that happy.

In her room, the lights flicker on when she walks in, although they've already begun to dim with the circadian schedule. She walks over to the small tin she'd found that morning, examining the ring with new eyes. It is a simple affair, no worn engraving, no stones or flair. But Clarke likes it nonetheless.

Setting it down, she unclasps the necklace, sliding the ring onto it and circling her neck so the cool metal rests right over her heart. She lies down, pressing her palm over the ring and trying not to think about the uptick in her pulse and what it may or may not mean.

It's not like this is real anyway.

She falls asleep telling herself that when she wakes, she'll be back on Earth, back on her own.

  
And if her throat tightens at the thought? Well, no one else will know.


	3. Chapter 3

When she wakes to artificial light and recycled air instead of sunshine and dew, Clarke pretends not to feel relief for a second before she gives it up as lost. This may not be real, but it’s a reprieve from her misery on Earth and, as long as she’s here anyway, she’s going to milk it for everything it’s worth.

With that thought in mind, she bounds out of bed to begin her morning ablutions. She’d checked her schedule before leaving Medical last night, half out of habit and half out of hope, and she isn’t expected to report until hours from now.

The flat is empty as she walks into the kitchen to forage for breakfast, plaiting her hair into a neat braid. Opening drawer after drawer, she screws up her face, dreading the thought of putting the processed protein in her mouth. She turns as something red and shiny catches her eye.

There, tucked further back on the counter, sit two hydroponically grown apples. They’re undersize and dull in color compared to what she’s seen on Earth, but they’re real food.

They also trigger a flash of memory - fire dappling over a freckled face, the shine of white teeth, and the crisp crunch of an apple cutting through the riotous noise of a party.

Her chest tightens. She’s never thought of the first few weeks on Earth as simple, but her life has only grown progressively more complicated since then. After walking away from it all, Clarke has had more than enough time to reflect and the one thing - the only thing - she knows for certain is she misses her friends, Bellamy most of all.

The ring shifts beneath her shirt as she moves and Clarke wraps her hand around it and squeezes. The Bellamy here may not be the Bellamy she knows, but deep down, he can’t be that different.

Plus, she rationalizes as she grabs both apples and drops them into a bag, she owes him for the necklace.

Of course, the hard part about tracking Bellamy down is that she has no explanation for why she needs a guardsman she's not even supposed to know. Clarke find herself wandering the corridors of Go-Sci aimlessly, seeking him out in every corner. Just as she's prepared to give up, assuming he's not on shift or has been assigned elsewhere, she sees him speaking with a superior officer.

She hovers there at a loss as to how to proceed, but he catches her eye and nods his head towards a door. He starts to lure the other officer away with subtle steps in the opposite direction, giving Clarke the opportunity she needs to sneak in and close the door before the lights kick on.

Through the doorway, she finds a small, unused compartment. At one point it was probably a supply closet for the closest sanitation crew, as it still contains racks of empty metal shelving. It’s been picked clean over time, save for a single chair sitting with its back against the wall. She grabs it and pulls in in the middle of the floor, kneeling as she opens her bag on it.

The bustling noise of the hallway fills the room for a moment as Bellamy cracks open the door wide enough to slide through and closes it behind him. When he sees her on the floor, he smiles a bit and drops down beside her, leaning in to kiss the ball of her shoulder. “Are we having a picnic?” he asks in a deep quiet voice, pulling the sleeve of her shirt to open her neckline up, his breath hot against her skin.

Clarke trembles and closes her eyes to regain her composure, easing away from him. She pulls the ring out from under her shirt, resting her thumb beneath the chain before she lets it drop against her chest. “I had to come up with some way to reciprocate.”

His eyes light up at the sight of the ring, but he frowns. “I didn’t do it so you’d do something for me. I did it because I love you,” he says, all earnest sincerity as he leans towards her.

She hides the hitch of her breath at those words with a shaky smile. “That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t. Symbiosis was a natural part of life for a lot of organisms before the Cataclysm.”

“Symbiosis?” he repeats with a doubtful look.

“Yes, a mutually beneficial relationship,” she says in her most reasonable tone. “Like clownfish and sea anemone. It’s simple biology.”

He stares at her for a beat before laughing quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he answers, shaking head, dark eyes dancing. “Trust you to rationalize a romantic gesture as a biological imperative.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it an imperative.” She frowns. “It’s more like a-”

“Clarke.”

She turns to him, blinking at his interruption. “Yes?”

Catching her chin in his hand, he presses a firm kiss to her mouth that has her stiffening. “Shut up,” he says with a grin.

She remains still for a minute before relaxing against his side. “I guess I’ll just keep my surprise, then?”

“I don’t really consider a meal pack much of a surprise.”

“Ye of little faith,” she says, bumping her shoulder into his before she reaches into her bag, producing the two apples with a flair.

He stares at the fruit in surprise. “I…” he starts, before faltering and turning to her with wide eyes. “I haven’t had an apple since I was a kid; we never had the ration points for them.”

Her mind revisits the memory she had this morning and she flinches at the unwanted reminder of being out of place. “Take it.” She hands one to him, thrusting it into his palm when he hesitates. “Rationalize the biological imperative to eat as a romantic gesture if it makes you feel better,” she says with a smile.

That makes him smile in return. “You’re not fooling anyone, Griffin,” he says, dropping one arm around her shoulders as he brings the apple up to inspect the peel. He glances at her. “Thank you for this.”

“Thank you for the necklace. Now… take a bite.”

He does, the crunch echoing around the empty room, and Bellamy moans at the taste. Goosebumps prickle her flesh and Clarke hides her reaction by taking a bite of her own apple, trying not to make a face at the mealy texture of the nearly-flavorless flesh. She sighs, figuring that losing the simple pleasure of food is a small enough price to pay for this simple life.

Bellamy devours his apple in silence, while Clarke takes smaller bites, deep in thought remembering that Unity Day before everything went to hell on the ground. The pleasant buzz of the moonshine, the carefree laughter, the camaraderie among the remaining members of the 100. She wonders what any of them would have done differently if they’d known that half of them would be dead in only a few days.

Blinking away the sting behind her eyes, appetite gone, she offers Bellamy the rest of her apple.

“Not hungry?” he asks, setting the core of his down and taking hers with clear reluctance.

She shrugs. “I’d rather see you enjoy it.” When he still doesn’t eat, she prods him in the thigh. “I’ll find something else, I promise.”

“You’d better,” he says, but he finally takes a bite. After chewing, he returns her poke on her opposite side before returning his arm to her shoulder. “O might be a hell of a seamstress, but there’s only so much she can take in clothes before they start to look weird.” He holds the apple up with a gleam in his eye. “And I might become accustomed to this kind of lifestyle.”

 _Octavia_. How could Clarke have forgotten? Being here, back on a healthy Ark, where she's not in charge and she's not responsible for anyone's life (or death) may be Clarke's dream, but for Octavia... This reality would not be so kind. Clarke turns to Bellamy. "How is Octavia?"

He swallows the bite he’d just taken and shrugs. "She's doing as well as can be expected. She always says the Sky Box is more comfortable than a hole in the floor," he says with a wry twist of mouth. "And your mom stopped by a few days ago during her Prison Station rounds and told O to be optimistic about her review."

Clarke remains quiet. Octavia is alive, but she's locked up. Even if her review ends in her favor, she'll never fit in with the population of the Ark, will always be seen as an anomaly. She'll never become the warrior she's meant to be, never get to test the boundaries of her independence in crazy ways... She'll never meet the man she loves. Loved. Should love.

Clarke jolts when Bellamy presses a kiss to her temple. "Okay?" he murmurs against her hair. She forces herself to relax against him again with a nod, even though her mind churns with questions.

Of course, if Octavia is in the Sky Box, that means Bellamy's mother was likely still floated and Bellamy should have been demoted to sanitation. She stirs a bit, about to pry, when the obvious answer occurs: her. It would be unheard of for a young woman in her position to marry a janitor; no doubt her mother pulled some strings to get Bellamy reinstated to the Guard, so the union would be a tad less unsavory, if not still not entirely preferable.

“How long until Octavia’s review?” she asks as he finishes the second apple.

“Five weeks and four days,” he says, voice thick with relief. “Then Octavia will come home and you and I can finally stop hiding.” His arm tightens around as he dips his head to kiss her neck, dark curls brushing against her skin. Clarke lets her head fall back as the final pieces of the puzzle fall into place, Then her mind goes blank and she's biting her lip as pleasure coils. “We can talk in public, hold hands, kiss…” He moves up to her jaw. “Announce our engagement.” To her ear. “And then finally, we can get married.” He cups her jaw in his hand, turning her face to his to drop a lingering kiss on her lips.

She feels her face heat, but covers her flush by rubbing her nose alongside his. “And then what?” she manages, voice raspy and barely recognizable to her own ears.

He grins against her mouth. “I’m glad you asked.” And he seals his lips back over hers, sweet like the apples, and tips her back onto the floor. Clarke closes her eyes and lets it all crash over her.

This is her escape from reality and it’s time she starts enjoying it.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, Bellamy is still on shift and can’t spend much longer with her. She lets him go with reluctance, glorying in his mussed hair and flushed cheeks and swollen lips. All because of her.

He kisses her one last time, soft and fleeting, before he leaves and Clarke lays back against the cool floor, panting to catch her breath.

Considering that she’s just barely 18, it seems silly to think that Bellamy makes her feel like a kid again. But her soul is so weary from life on the ground that most days she feels ancient. Here, with him, she feels hopeful and bright and all the other poetic things the old Earth musicians wrote songs about. The thought makes her press her hands to her face in embarrassment, even if no one knows what she’s thinking or is around to see her.

She collects herself and finally leaves her little closet oasis, intending to head back toward her flat until it’s time for her shift. Halfway back to Alpha Station, she sees a face that makes her breath catch.

"Wells," she says in wonder, running up and enfolding him in a hug. He returns the gesture but she can feel hesitance in the tension of his arms.

"Are we speaking again?" he asks.

Pulling back, she frowns at him. In this life, her father is alive. There was no treason committed, no confidences betrayed - even if she knows now that Wells was never the one to do so in the first place. What reason could she have for not speaking to him? “Now is as good of a time as any.” She stares at his familiar face, a knot of emotion in her throat. “I’ve missed you.”

He softens and shifts to briefly squeeze her shoulders. “I’ve missed you, too.” Dropping his hands, he takes a step back. “Were you heading back home?”

She nods, gesturing for him to come with her, and they start down the mostly abandoned corridor. “I’m not on shift in Medical for a while yet. I was down here…” She pauses and considers her words. Obviously, very few people know about she and Bellamy, but she’s willing to bet Wells is one of them. Still she hedges, “Having breakfast.”

He smiles wryly. “With your charming fiancé, I’m assuming?”

Her stomach sinks as she begins to realize the source of tension between she and Wells in this life. Of course he doesn’t approve of her engagement - he’s been in love with her for years, a fact she’d always pretended she wasn’t aware of, but one she’s known almost from the first moment it crossed his mind. He probably didn’t like Bellamy as a person much either, if their fractious relationship on the ground was anything to go by. “He’s a good man,” she says now, watching Wells’s profile. “I wish-” _you’d been around to see what he could become_ , she thinks and bites her lip. “I wish you’d give him a chance.”

He sighs and stops, turning to take her arm. “Clarke.” He hesitates and she sees the struggle on his face as he wrestles with the decision whether or not to say what’s on his mind. “We are not like other people. No, wait,” he says as she prepares to argue. “I’m not talking about class, but about who we are, fundamentally. You and I, we were born to lead, to help govern our people and ensure the survival of the human race. We have responsibilities to the people on the Ark. We can’t just abandon that, abandon them to - what? - follow our hearts? We have to be above that.”

The words are too close to others’, too close to ones she’s told herself. “There has to be more than that,” she says, voice raw. “I refuse to accept that there can’t be more than duty and sacrifice and death and destruction. What is it all for if there can’t be hope, huh? If there can’t be happiness or love or joy?”

Wells stares at her. “Can’t you find happiness in your people, in seeing them live and in turn create life and prosper? Can’t you find the hope and joy in that?”

“Clarke the _leader_ can,” she says with a nod. “Clarke the _person_ wants her own.”

His face melts into sympathetic lines. “I get that, I do.” Stepping closer to her, he brushes his thumb against the dimple in her chin. “Maybe the two don’t have to be exclusive. Maybe you can find a way to give Clarke the person the happiness she deserves without sacrificing the well-being of the Ark.”

She stares up into his familiar face and for a moment it all flashes before her eyes: her and Wells, the power couple, taking the reins from their parents and leading their people back to Earth. It’s a pipe dream for so many reasons, the least of which is the ring that rests around her neck.

She catches his hand and lowers it from her face. “I’m sorry, Wells,” she says, keeping her voice soft. “I can’t.” His fingers spasm within her grasp and she tightens her hold, terrified that he’ll drift away before her eyes.

He forces a smile and pulls his hand free, starting back down the hallway. “You know,” he says turning to face her after he’s taken a few steps, “this is going to come out wrong, but it’s sincere: I hope you don’t live to regret this.”

Her smile isn’t any more successful. “And I hope you do live to see me regret it,” she answers.

With one puzzled glance, he walks away.

 

* * *

 

The confrontation with Wells stays in the back of her mind through her entire shift. She can’t help going back to it, like pressing on a toothache.

Even though he wouldn’t say as much, Wells had a point: she was being selfish. Not just the Clarke in this life, but the sheer fact that she was here at all, all stemming back to walking out of Camp Jaha.

But didn’t she deserve to be a little selfish? It wasn’t as if her need for distance and perspective, her drive to understand her desperate actions, were for personal gain. No, she was doing it because she needed to, in order to better lead her people.

It was all for them; every bit of it.

Except now, being here, enjoying this life that wasn’t hers.

Guilt slams through her, stealing her breath, and she’s grateful to find her shift is nearly up.

As soon as the clock shifts, she’s off, not caring about guards or curfews.

She follows the path instinctively, one she had never followed before and yet is somehow ingrained in her, drawing her in like a magnet.

Across the Sky Bridge connecting the stations, she walks and walks, barely paying attention to her surroundings, until she’s knocking desperately on a door.

It slides open and Bellamy peers at her through sleepy eyes. “Clarke?” he says, scraping his hair back from his forehead with one hand while he pulls her inside with the other. “What’s wrong?” 

"I'm not your Clarke."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (friendly reminder that this _is_ tagged with "angst". buckle your seatbelts, the next two chapters are going to be a bumpy ride...)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke tells Bellamy the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE! Okay, I did not intend to take almost **six months** to write/post the next chapter. But here we are, all because I promised someone I would finish this story before s3 premieres. (Which seemed a lot more feasible almost 2 months ago and when I assumed the premier would be in March, but I digress...)

Bellamy stares at her.

"I'm not your Clarke," she repeats. "That is, if you even have one."

Pain flickers across his face and he swallows hard. He drops her hand and folds his arms across his chest. "Ah," he says, voice brittle as a reed beneath the light tone, "I kept wondering when you'd get bored."

“What? No, no.That’s not - I’m not...” She waves him off and takes a breath. “What I’m going to tell you sounds insane, but… Can we sit down?”

Still guarded, he nods and heads toward the small table along the back wall. She darts a gaze around the room with its sparse furnishings - she’s never been inside a Factory flat before - as she takes a seat across from him. He clears his throat and she whips her gaze up to his. Closing her eyes for a second, she nods and then stares at the table top.

“A year ago,” she says in a slow, careful tone, “my dad discovered a flaw in the Ark life support. A fatal, unfixable flaw, that would only give us a few months of air at most.” He sucks in a shocked breath, but Clarke continues, undeterred.

“When he tried to tell the entire population, he was…” Her throat catches; spending time with her father has made this wound fresh and raw once more. “He was floated. And because I knew about it, I was arrested for treason.”

She looks at him then, seeing the confusion knitting his brow as she says, “Until a few months ago, when 99 other juvenile offenders from the Sky Box and I were sent down to Earth. Including Octavia.”

“But your dad is alive,” he says, sitting forward. “And I just saw Octavia! She was in the Sky Box, like normal.”

Clarke licks her lips and gives a small nod. “In this reality.”

“What?”

“In this reality,” she repeats, a little stronger this time. “Or universe. Or dream. Or whatever. I haven’t been able to figure it out yet. All I know is I went to sleep on Earth and woke up back here, and everything was different. Bellamy, I don’t belong here; none of this is right.” She catches his hand, squeezes it, and locks eyes with him. “Some of them - the changes - are great, but it’s not… It’s not right.”

He watches her closely before leaning back with a humorless laugh, pulling his hand free. “You’re not joking.” Bellamy stands, looms over her, before he spins on his heels, stabbing his fingers through his hair. He absorbs the information for a quiet minute and turns back to her. “You believe that there’s, what, an alternate reality where all of this happened?”

“I know it sounds - I sound - crazy. That’s why I didn’t say anything before! Think about it,” she presses. “Haven’t you thought something was off with me the past few days? Little things, changes of behavior, that you justified?” She sees him consider it, his jaw flexing as he works it out. “It’s because I don’t belong here. This isn’t my… my place.” She shakes her head. “If you can’t trust me, then trust that the Clarke you know would never try to pull something like this.”

She knows the instant that Bellamy realizes she’s right. His face hardens as he drops back into the chair and folds his arms on top of the table. “Start from the beginning.”

* * *

 

She tells him everything - everything - ignoring him when he grumbles about Octavia’s short-lived romance with Atom, when he gets up to pace like a caged animal as she describes her relationship with Finn, when he buries his face in his hands as she explains Lincoln’s torture, when his breath catches as she talks about closing the Dropship door and finding him again later.

She only falters when she gets to the missile at TonDC, the one thing she’s convinced Bellamy would never forgive.

Staring down at her fingers knotted in her lap, she doesn’t notice him coming closer until his hand is on her shoulder. She looks at him through her lashes as he crouches down to see her face, without saying a word. His eyes when they meet hers aren’t accusing or angry, but gentle. In a way, Clarke’s not surprised - her actions have no impact on this Bellamy; his sister is safe in her cell. Regardless, at his tacit forgiveness, the knot in her stomach she’s carried since that day uncoils bit by bit and she breathes deeply, nods, and continues.

Bellamy returns to his seat, not dropping his hand from her shoulder, but sliding it down to sit on her arm where it lay on top of the table, his grip loose right above her wrist. She draws strength from that contact to get through the Mount Weather massacre and walking away from Camp Jaha.

They sit in silence while he digests her story. They’re so still, in fact, that the lights start to dim at the lack of motion. She feels him stir and tenses beneath his hold. “Don’t,” she says, as the room grows dark enough that she can no longer see the finer details of his face, just the shine of his eyes.

“What I don’t understand,” his voice rumbles, “is why now?”

“Octavia. And Wells.” When he doesn’t respond, she hesitates. “You should see your sister on the ground, Bellamy. It’s where she belongs and she’s blossomed into a-”

“A murderer,” he says, voice flat. Clarke flinches at the accusation. If that’s how he saw the Octavia she’d described, what must he think of her?

“A warrior,” she defends fiercely. “One born out of necessity. And one so loyal to you that she’d give up any semblance of belonging - either to the people of the Ark or to the grounders. One who takes no pleasure in what she’s doing, but who does what needs to be done when no one else will - or can.”

He leans back, pulling his hand from her arm, and the lights in the flat snap back on in a startling flash. Clarke’s heart sinks, until she chances a look up at his face and sees the quiet satisfaction there. “Now, if you can see that about Octavia, why can’t you see it about yourself?” he asks with quiet reason.

Something thick and hot presses against the back of her eyes and she shakes her head in a feeble rejection of his neatly laid trap. “It’s different,” she manages to rasp out.

Bellamy doesn’t respond to that, just makes a noncommittal sound. “And Wells? How does he factor in? Obviously he’s not better off on the ground.”

She clears her throat. “I saw him before my shift and he reminded me of who I am: a leader. I walked away from that role, to try to figure out how to reconcile my decisions and their consequences. To figure out how to live with what I’d done for my people’s survival. But that’s not what I’m doing here. I was enjoying the reprieve instead of-”

“Doing penance?”

Clarke doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how to. How can he - this Bellamy she doesn’t know - see through her just as clearly as the one she’s left behind?

He sighs, jaw flexing. “And I suppose it never occurred to you, Dr. Griffin, that being here, enjoying this, is exactly the kind of healing that you need? No,” he says, wryly answering his own question, “no, you wouldn’t. Because you want to suffer. You think you deserve it.”

“The things I’ve done, Bellamy…” She eases out a shaky breath. “They’re so hard to live with. They press down on me, weighing on me, to the point that I can barely breathe when I think about them. But I need to, do you understand? I need to think about them. Because if I don’t, what does that make me, that I could perpetrate such vile acts and then move on with my life?”

He stays quiet, digesting that, before asking carefully, "Do you want forgiveness? Is that why you're telling me this?"

The words are so close to those he'd echoed before she'd walked away, her stomach swoops. "No, I don't want or need forgiveness. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve this, this happiness I have here in this life. I deserve to be miserable and alone."

"Clarke," is all he has to say, voice throbbing, and the pressure behind her eyes overwhelms her defenses and a single tear escapes.

She swipes at her cheek and struggles to regain some balance. "And I know that as soon as I figure out the- the lesson or the moral or whatever, this reality will be gone, all of it. And I'll be on my own again."

He leans forward at that. "You think there's something you're supposed to learn here?"

"Of course," she says with a nod.

"Why?"

She stares at him, nonplussed. "What do you mean, why? You know how this goes, how every story about a journey goes. Once the greatest conflict is dealt with, the protagonist-"

"Hero," he interrupts, mouth twitching.

"Protagonist returns to every-day life, changed for the better or ready to improve the world." She shrugs. "Ergo, I'm here to either learn something to correct the circumstances in my reality or to learn something about myself." He's smiling a bit as he watches her and Clarke's face heats, but she holds his gaze. She's never backed down from Bellamy Blake; she's not going to start now.

"Which do you think it is?" he asks, dark eyes pinning her in place.

She hesitates. "The latter."

“Why not the former - correcting the circumstances?”

“What’s done is done; there’s no undoing it,” she says, her firm tone belied by a tinge of regret.

He’s quiet for a beat, before asking, “Would you? If you could?”

If Clarke were a good person, the kind of person she wanted to be, she knows her answer would be an unequivocal yes. Yes, of course, she would undo it, she’d say without hesitation, and maybe some of the weight would be lifted. But Clarke says nothing instead - to undo one thing would be to undo everything, and that’s not a cost she’s willing to pay. The silence is damning.

At least it is to her, because Bellamy just nods. “Okay, how do we get you home?”

* * *

They hash out a plan and somehow migrate to the small single bed as they discuss, Bellamy stretched out on his side while Clarke sits cross-legged with her back against the wall at the foot of the bed.

When he takes too long to open his eyes after a blink, Clarke smiles - and it doesn’t feel false for once tonight. “I should go. You’re tired.”

His eyes open at that and Bellamy reaches for her hand. “Stay,” he says, tugging until she’s lying on her side facing him.

“Bellamy, you know I’m not - and we’re not…” She clears her throat, pulling back a little. “I’m not her, you know. Your Clarke, if you have one. That is, assuming this plane of reality is, well, real. And my Bellamy and I… We’re not - not like you and your Clarke.” When she stops rambling long enough to look up at him, she sees his amusement and huffs out a breath. “Shut up,” she says, rolling over to turn her back towards him.

He laughs softly and drapes an arm over her waist. The light gradually dims until they’re in darkness once more. “What happens,” he asks carefully after a few minutes of silence, “if the plan doesn’t work? If you’re stuck here?”

“It’s going to work,” she says with quiet desperation. “I’m going back.”

“What if there is no moral to the story? What if this is just… how it’s meant to be? You here, with me.” His hand comes up to brush the hair from her nape and Clarke shivers as she feels his warm breath against the bare skin. “What if there’s no ‘why’ and this is just how things are now?”

She turns again to face him. “Be serious. I can’t stay here; I have to go back, no matter how long it takes, no matter what it takes. I have a responsibility.”

“Clarke.” He cups her jaw, tracing the dimple of her chin with the tip of his thumb. “I don’t want to see you drive yourself crazy over something that may never happen. Couldn’t you be happy here? With your family? With Wells? Living the life you were meant to live before you were arrested and sent to the ground?” Vulnerability flashes through his eyes. “Couldn’t you be happy with me?”

“Bellamy,” she breathes, gripping his wrist to hold his hand in place, “I’m not her. I’m not even the Clarke I was before the ground. I couldn’t even begin to remember how to be her beyond what I’ve done the past few days. To live this life day after day, after what I’ve done… I owe my people more than that. I owe every person I hurt, every person I… killed more than that.”

He rolls onto his back, the movement of the mattress knocking her into his side. She's about to move back when he curls one arm around her waist, hand palming her hip. It's too familiar and her nerves jangle, but she doesn't move. Instead she settles against him carefully, heart pounding. They lie in tense silence until his breathing evens out and Clarke knows he’s finally asleep.

“If I thought I deserved it,” she whispers against the fabric of his shirt, “I could be happy here. With you.”

* * *

After a few sleepless hours, Clarke sneaks out of Bellamy’s flat. The hallways are dim, telling her it’s not quite time for the circadian circuit to begin its own version of dawn, the gentle brightening of the lights that in no way compares to the majesty of the original.

For all of the horror and agony living on the ground has brought, it has provided profound moments of beauty, too, and Clarke yearns for those quiet comforts nearly as much as she yearned for the security of the Ark while she was on the ground.

The grass is always greener, she thinks with a wry grimace as she quietly unlocks the the door to her parents’ flat with her thumb. She’s surprised to see that the lights are already on, though not to their full wattage, when she glances over to find her dad scribbling out something on his tablet, preferring to make his notes longhand instead of typing them, in a way that always baffled Clarke.

“Hey,” she says softly, trying not to look as guilty as she feels. Had she ever broken curfew before? Ever snuck back into their home in the early morning? If she had, she couldn’t recall it now.

“Clarke,” he says, relieved, as he turns in his chair to face her. “You cut it too close this time, kiddo. I was seriously worried your mother was going to wake up before you got back.”

Apparently this Clarke led a far more interesting life than she ever had. Clarke struggles to keep the pang of something - envy? - off her face as she moves further into the room. “I’m sorry, Bellamy just looked so peaceful, I didn’t want-”

“Nope,” Jake says, climbing to his feet and cutting her off with a gesture, “the deal was I’d help you as long as you let me pretend that you were just studying late or catching another shift.” A pained look crosses his face. “Anything but the truth.”

She laughs at his obvious discomfort, though it catches on the ball of grief in her throat. How is she going to give this up again? How will she survive it a second time? “Sorry,” she says again, then crosses to him, stretching to peck his cheek. “You’re sweet. And a great dad. I don’t tell you that enough.”

“I could stand to hear it more,” he says in genial agreement, before grinning. “The only thing I ask is that you leave me my delusions. You’re still my little girl.”

Her heart squeezes. “Always,” she promises, then clears her throat. “Did you ever get a chance to look into the oxygen supply?”

He sobers up and pulls back to look at her. “I did. You’re still worried about that dream?” He shakes his head, then folds her into his arms. “Everything’s fine, honey. This old boat will outlive us all, right up until the day where she takes us home.”

At the wistful tone in his voice, the words come bubbling up to her throat, the need to tell him about Earth a physical ache, but she swallows it all down. Nods. “Good,” she says. “That’s good.” Even if she can’t stay, at least she’ll know he - and everyone else - will be safe.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” He steps back and walks toward his desk. “I’ve got an early meeting and your mom is having a working breakfast with the council, so you’ll have the entire place to yourself on your day off if you want to” - he shoots her a pained smile - “study.”

She smiles gamely at his joke but stands there watching him as he turns back to his work, strands of hair falling into his eyes as he squints in concentration. She memorizes everything about him, the way the light catches his hair to make it shine as bright as her own and the way he rubs his jaw in frustration when something obviously doesn’t work out to his liking, his stubble rasping in the early morning silence.

She knows this is goodbye, that if everything goes according to plan, she won’t see him again before waking up back on Earth. And she forces herself to be okay with that. This version of her dad deserves the daughter he knows, not the pale imitation Clarke is struggling to be.

It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.

“Dad,” she says before she turns away, waiting until he looks back at her, his face clearing as he shifts focus, “I love you.”

“Love you, too, kid,” he replies, like always, his smile loving, like always.

Clarke makes it to her bedroom just as the tears start in earnest.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come talk to me on [tumblr](http://itsactuallycorrine.tumblr.com)


End file.
